Precarious

by Al Riske

“No idea,” Jay says.

  Alison makes a beeline for the bathroom. “Gotta pee.”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you, since it’s a secret,” Stephanie says.

  “Really? Victoria’s Secret?”

  “Clever boy. Too bad you won’t be allowed to see what we picked out until your wedding night. Trust me, though: You’re going to love it.”

  IN HIS YOUNGER, unencumbered days Jay would not have hesitated. Stephanie would no doubt be “a ripper in the sack,” as one of his friends put it after meeting her for less than a minute. But now, even if he weren’t engaged to Alison, he’d have to think twice. Women like Stephanie could be trouble. They could seem totally uninhibited and turn out to be completely neurotic.

  “Wouldn’t stop me,” his friend says.

  Scott, it’s pretty clear, is already in bed with her, in his head. Meanwhile, in the real world, it’s happy hour, and the two men are drinking Cosmopolitans just to see why so many women seem to like them.

  “Not bad,” Jay says.

  “Hmm? Oh, she’s not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. No tits for one thing. But I don’t care about … ”

  “I meant the drink.”

  “Oh, right. Not bad at all,” Scott says. “So why don’t you give me her number.”

  “Don’t have it,” Jay says.

  STEPHANIE IS WEARING a short denim jacket over a knee-length summer dress, red with a floral pattern, and Jay watches her ponytail sway as he follows her up the walk and into a two-bedroom, one-bath bungalow in south San Jose.

  When he turns around she has closed the door and he’s not sure but he thinks she may have locked it.

  “You’ll love the kitchen,” she says. “It’s been completely remodeled.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Alison?”

  “Alison isn’t coming,” she says, shrugging off the denim jacket. “She just called me. Something at work she can’t get out of.”

  It must be his imagination, but Stephanie’s boobs seem to have grown at least a cup size since he saw her last.

  “Would you like to see?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The kitchen is right this way.”

  She slings her jacket over the back of a chair and gives him a tour of the kitchen, smiling and gesturing broadly at all the shiny appliances as if she’s the hostess of some long-forgotten game show.

  “Very nice,” he says.

  The tour continues to the bathroom (needs work), the guest room (surprisingly tiny), and finally … “The master bedroom!” Stephanie is still doing her game-show hostess routine. Her boobs are definitely bigger, and her nipples are now poking up beneath the thin fabric of her dress.

  Jay walks slowly around the room, pausing to open the closet. Stephanie is right behind him.

  “Are you getting hard yet,” she whispers.

  Jay freezes. He can feel her breath on his neck.

  “You did that night when I kissed you,” she continues. “You do remember that, don’t you? I’ve waited a long time … I even wore my push-up bra for you today.”

  She wraps her arms around him and kisses the back of his neck.

  “Alison—”

  Her right hand slides down to his crotch and finds that he is indeed hard as can be.

  “I certainly hope you don’t call her ‘Stephanie’ when you’re about to fuck the shit out of her.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Don’t worry about Alison. She won’t mind.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “No, really. I asked her. It’s okay.”

  “You asked her what?”

  “If I could fuck you.”

  “Right. And she said—”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  AFTER THAT, STEPHANIE seems to disappear, existing only as a voice on the phone or as a character in a story Alison relays after one of their lunch dates.

  There don’t seem to be any houses on the market in their price range anymore—or they’re such dumps Stephanie won’t show them. At the last minute she cancels their tennis match, complaining of shin splints.

  Jay doesn’t comment on any of this, and he certainly doesn’t ask whether Alison really gave Stephanie her permission. He knows the only way she would say, “Knock yourself out” was as a joke—to keep up with Stephanie in the shock department.

  Alison’s only remark to him is about the tennis: “Next time we play, we should throw the match,” she says. “Stephanie needs a win.”

  THE NEXT DAY Jay comes home to find Stephanie in her lucky white dress. She’s sitting in his favorite wing-back chair, eyes closed, smiling, legs spread wide. Kneeling in front of her is Alison, nude except for a black push-up bra and matching pumps.

  SHAKEN, JAY SPENDS the night at Scott’s place. His friend hands him a beer and says, “Don’t beat yourself up, man. You didn’t stand a chance.”

  Jay shakes his head, holds the cold, wet bottle but doesn’t drink.

  “I didn’t see it coming,” he says. “I should have seen it coming.”

  “I’ll tell you what you should have done. You should have given me her number when I asked you.”

  Again, Jay shakes his head.

  There’s a long silence.

  Scott guzzles half his beer, says, “Look, they have all the cards. We’re just lucky they let us play sometimes.”

  THE NEXT DAY Jay gets a call from Alison at the studio.

  “I’m glad you called,” he says.

  “Because you weren’t going to, were you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess we need to talk.”

  “We do. The perfect house is coming on the market—we need to make an offer today. This afternoon, if possible. Can you come take a look at it?”

  He doesn’t know what to say.

  “Jay? Are you there?”

  Finally, he says, “Is Stephanie going to be there?”

  “The house has everything we want: Wood floors. Fireplace. Secluded backyard. I don’t want someone else to snap it up before we do.”

  “Make an offer then,” he tells her. “I have a shoot I have to do now.”

  THE HOUSE IS empty, the owners having already moved out of state. Jay meets Alison there that evening. She is standing in the middle of the living room, in a gray pinstriped suit with a skirt just longer than the jacket.

  “Can you believe it?” she asks.

  He hugs her. “When can we move in?”

  “Ninety days, if all goes well.”

  “I was hoping we could move in right after our wedding.”

  She turns away, walks to the window, and looks out at the yard. Finally, she says, “I can’t marry you, Jay.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because of Stephanie.”

  “I don’t get it. You want her—”

  “I want you to marry her.”

  “Now I really don’t get it.”

  “I know you find her attractive.”

  “No more than you do,” he says.

  He immediately wishes he could take that back. This is not the time for recriminations.

  “She loves you,” Alison says.

  “And you don’t?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then … why … ?”

  “It’s simple: You’ll marry Stephanie and we can all live here,” she says. “The owners have already accepted her offer.”

  “Her offer?”

  Alison nods.

  “And this is what you want?”

  “Yes,” she tells him.

  “I really … I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you will.”

  She is looking straight into his eyes, and he is surprised to hear himself say “I will.”

  “You’ll do it? You’ll marry Stephanie?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  Then he sees Stephanie standing the entryway to the kitchen, arms folded, lips stretched into an indulgent smile.

  Your Eyes Only

 
BITS OF WIRE, slivers of plywood, chunks of glass—all kinds of shit—tore through my eyelids and lodged in my eyes, leaving me in darkness and pain.

  I passed out.

  When I woke up I couldn’t see anything, and in a way I couldn’t feel anything. Life as I knew it was over—at twenty-seven. Plastic surgeons could fix my face, they said, but my eyes? Lost cause.

  Was I glad, two years later, when my lawyer proved the explosion was not my fault but my fucking employer’s? Was I pleased when the jury awarded me more money than a gofer like me could earn in seven lifetimes? I told the reporter who interviewed me outside the courthouse that I was, but that was only because I couldn’t think of any other words to use.

  I did not feel glad, and nothing really pleased me anymore. I was in a dark hole, and the idea that I could now make the hole comfortable—thanks to the deep pockets of one of the world’s biggest bone-head construction companies—wasn’t enough. I wanted out.

  NO ONE BUT my doctor and his twin brother, a computer scientist, thought the operation would be successful. Everyone else scoffed at the very idea of transplants. Each eye has something like 1.1 million nerve endings, after all. But I didn’t know that when the Arcuri brothers first approached me.

  They had this idea, and when they heard about my settlement on the news, they thought: Here’s a guy who might be willing to back us.

  They told me eye transplants just might be possible with the help of nanobots—microscopic systems made from molecules—that could be injected into the eyes of a dead but otherwise healthy donor and those of the recipient. Me, in this case. The nanobots in the donor’s eyes would be programmed to sever the nerves and stay with the eyes. The ones in my eyes would do the same but stay with me. Then, when the donor’s eyes were placed in my sockets, both sets of nanobots would form an ad hoc wireless network and set to work attaching nerve endings in whatever way made the most sense to them. Get enough of them right and who knows?

  Anthony and Mario made it sound simple (though I was sure it would be anything but), and I gave them four million dollars to get started. I grew increasingly skeptical when they kept coming back for more, but I always gave them what they wanted. I would do anything to see again and they knew it.

  AFTER THE OPERATION I felt a lot of pain behind my eyes, but I could see. Not well at first, but better every day, and for the first time in ages, I felt happy—ecstatic, in fact. I was seeing the world through new eyes, blue ones this time.

  Then I made the mistake of looking at myself in a full-length mirror.

  What I saw there repulsed me. I had gained about thirty pounds sitting on my ass drinking tequila and listening to Clash albums on a retro hi-fi system—the closest thing to pleasure available to me. Well, that and food. Lots of food. Fattening food from the look of my belly and thighs.

  I became obsessed with my looks.

  I started running again, once I could see well enough, and I surprised myself by signing up for yoga classes and actually going. I even gave up red meat, something I never thought I’d do, and after eleven months I was back down to what I weighed when I was running crosscountry in high school.

  All of this was just a prelude, though, to all the strange things that started happening to blue-eyed me.

  FIRST, LIKE I said, I became obsessed with my looks. As my weight was steadily declining, I often found myself shopping for new clothes, which wasn’t surprising in the least, but I also found that I enjoyed it, and that did surprise me. I had never in my life gone shopping unless I had to. I would grab a new pair of the same jeans I’d just worn holes in, then get the hell out as fast as I could. Done. Now I was lingering and buying shirts that brought out the blue of my eyes.

  Being able to see again, I noticed things I had always taken for granted. Blue wasn’t just blue any more. Some blues had more green in them. Others, more red. Periwinkle was my new favorite.

  I began to dress in a wide variety of colors, chose styles that were meant for a younger crowd, and let my hair grow so long I pulled it back into a ponytail most days—a style that went against the buzz-cut grain of the times and seemed to suit me just fine.

  None of this struck me as strange, really, until I was in a drug store and a particular eyeliner caught my eye. I don’t know why, but I picked it up and wanted to try it. It would make my eyes stand out more, I thought, and I really liked my eyes. I wanted other people to notice them. Strange. Why should I care if anyone noticed my eyes? But I did.

  I bought the eyeliner and a few other things, and I used them so sparingly that no one seemed to notice. At least they didn’t say anything. But then who was going to say anything? Blindness and self-pity had left me with few friends. None, in fact.

  I really wished I had someone to talk to, because I also started having a new kind of nightmare. Not the same old one about the gas main blowing. The new kind took place in settings I’d never seen before and were filled with a visceral sense of danger and betrayal. I was actually afraid to go to sleep at night. I’d stay awake as long as I could, watching television in bed, but then my eyes would start to ache and I’d worry that my body was trying to reject them. So finally I’d close them tight, as if I could hold them in that way, and pull the covers up around me in my fists.

  THE NEXT DAY I met someone, a sales clerk, in the lingerie department of Macy’s—the one at the Stanford Shopping Center in Palo Alto.

  “Can I help you find anything?” she asked.

  I was squeezing the cup of a padded bra at the time. She looked in my eyes and smiled. I laughed and shook my head.

  “I was just passing by.”

  I had been on my way to the escalator and only stopped because I saw all these colorful bras with what looked like hard cups and I was curious.

  “Look around,” she said. “We have lots of things on sale today. Bras, panties, bodyshapers … all 30 percent off.”

  I noticed hints of gray in her dark brown hair, but she still looked very young. I was sure I had seen her somewhere before.

  It was she who said, finally, “I know you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t I?”

  “You seem familiar.”

  We looked at each other.

  “Your eyes,” she said. “They’re very nice.”

  “Thanks. They’re not mine.”

  She looked at me oddly, as did everyone I said that to, then she touched my arm softly and excused herself to help another customer. There was something sad in her smile.

  I continued to look around, and when she was free, she helped me pick out a turquoise nightie for a girlfriend I didn’t have. I just wanted to stay around as long as I could. No one (aside from the Arcuri brothers) had taken so much interest in me for a long time. It didn’t matter that she seemed to think I was shopping for myself—probably because of the eye makeup, I realized later. Anyway, it seemed to make her happy, or almost, and I liked that.

  I WOKE UP in the middle of the night, the sheets soaking wet. They felt cold. Like ice water. Had I knocked over the glass on my night-stand? No. It was practically full. I felt like I was going nuts. Seriously. It scared the hell out of me.

  THE NEXT DAY, a warm spring day with cherry trees blooming white against a clear blue sky, I went back to Macy’s and asked the woman—Brenda, her nametag said—if she’d like to have lunch with me.

  “What about your girlfriend?” she asked.

  I shrugged. She smiled knowingly. I shook my head.

  “I like you.”

  She smiled more.

  “I like you, too,” she said, “but I’m married.”

  “You having lunch with your husband?”

  “No.”

  “Then have lunch with me.”

  OVER SALADS IN a nearby bistro, I found out that the sadness I had sensed in her was the ultimate sadness—her only child, a daughter about to graduate from Stanford, had been killed.

  “You remind me of her, a little,” she said, unconsciously sliding a cherry toma
to in her mouth with her fingers. “Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

  While we were waiting for the check, I started to tell her about my nightmares, but they seemed to upset her as much as they did me, so I stopped.

  SOMETIMES MY EYES played tricks on me. Or my brain did when it tried to make sense of some cross-connected nerves. Little things like thinking I recognized someone in the distance but when I got up close, it turned out to be a total stranger. But also big things like talking to people I used to know (I seemed to run into my lawyer a lot) and having their faces change halfway through the conversation until I didn’t know them at all.

  THE ARCURI BROTHERS called their new venture ReVision, for obvious reasons, and the IPO was wildly successful.

  “IPO?” I asked.

  “Initial public offering,” Mario said. “Of stock.”

  “Right.”

  They laughed.

  “It means you can buy anything you see,” Anthony said.

  I laughed, too. He had chosen his words well.

  The main thing was that I could see, but I was pleased I’d be able to recover my investment.

  OFTEN, WHEN BRENDA wasn’t working, we’d have cappuccinos and croissants at our favorite bakery and go shopping together, usually starting at Crate & Barrel, because she was in the market for new furniture and I was learning to cook—I always needed a garlic press, a poultry thermometer, or something else I’d seen on the Food Channel. Mostly I went along with her because I didn’t have anything better to do, and she was the type of person who needed a second opinion on things. It was odd, though, because she almost always ignored my recommendations in the end.

  Then one day, in Bloomingdale’s, Brenda showed me a velvet dress in a shade of green so dark it was almost black. You could see an emerald shimmer, though, when she swept it off the rack and held it up.

  “You know,” she said, “this would look really good on you.”

  I didn’t know what the hell to say to that.

  “Oh, don’t act so surprised. You’d make a beautiful girl, and you know it.”

  I WAS APPREHENSIVE at first. This was all so strange. The makeup, the shopping, the dreams … they weren’t always nightmares anymore. It wasn’t strange to Brenda.